


History in Knitted Jumpers

by TheAberrantInkwell



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Post-Canon, Pre-Epilogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-29
Updated: 2016-04-29
Packaged: 2018-06-05 04:29:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6689179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAberrantInkwell/pseuds/TheAberrantInkwell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The war is over, Voldemort is beaten, and the Dursleys are going home. Petunia finds the trunk that Harry left behind, and inside discovers a symbol of the love she didn't give him—a symbol of the love he managed to find elsewhere.</p>
            </blockquote>





	History in Knitted Jumpers

It was dusk when they returned to their house, mere weeks after the end of the war. The day had been a whirlwind of celebration, packing, and goodbyes; Dudley, at least, had partaken in the former and the latter, while Petunia and Vernon were more concerned with preparing to go back to their _safe_ house and their _normal_ lives. Their son had expressed displeasure at having to leave before his cousin could make it around. Petunia silently pretended that she didn’t feel even a slight bit the same.

A surreal feeling descended on the car as they rolled down the asphalt toward Number Four. This was _home,_ this was _normal,_ this was so _achingly, magnificently familiar_ that they chose to quietly ignore the foreclosure sign on Number Ten; the boarded up windows of Number Seven; the scorch marks on the walls of Number Six; or the fact that Number Nine was conspicuously gone, replaced by a vacant lot with a crooked fence and blackened ground. Imperfections that would previously have been unacceptable in pristine Privet Drive, had those principles not been violated by a war that the Dursleys realized their neighbours knew nothing about.

They were almost surprised to see their house standing, untouched, as though they had merely stepped out for a late family dinner. A shiver ran down Petunia’s spine as they pulled into the driveway. Wards, something she had come to recognize over the past year, and a sort of angry, reluctant gratitude stirred in her. Despite uprooting their lives and forcing them to stay with _unnatural_ beings, _They_ had at least ensured that her family had a home to return to. That was more than the family of Number Nine had been given, she mused—if they were even still alive.

The family forwent unpacking, choosing instead to leave their cases stacked haphazardly in the sitting room. Aside from that it was almost life as usual, as though the past year hadn’t happened at all; every room was an eerie kind of clean, sanitary to a point that even Petunia had never been able to reach, and the refrigerator and cupboards were fully stocked. Vernon glanced warily at the food and retired early. Dudley followed soon after, having tried to watch the telly while munching on crisps as he had been so prone to do years previous as though he were grasping at times that would never be seen again.

So Petunia was left, strolling through her kitchen and checking every counter for spots, every wall for imperfections, and if she let her mind float away those days could have been yesterday. Dudley was in bed after a long day at school and with friends and Vernon was working late while her nephew—and the entire charade crashed down around her.

Perhaps bed wasn’t such a bad idea.

As she left the kitchen Petunia was inexplicably drawn to _that_ cupboard. The one under the stairs, where the Dursley family had stashed their deepest, darkest secret in the hopes that no one would ever find out. It was incredibly small, she noticed as she stooped down to open the door. The old crib mattress that had been his bed was still there, surrounded by small knick-knacks and children’s drawings. It painted a sad picture, a little creature who had nothing and no one and so stashed away even the smallest little items that were given with anything that could be perceived as love.

She turned away and, squashing down every shred of regret that rose to the surface as she had done so many times before, Petunia tread upstairs. Unlike years ago she had no fear of waking anyone with her footsteps.

That was his cupboard and here was his room, door riddled with locks and a cat flap that dated back to the first summer he’d returned. Her heart sank when she realized that he’d spent more time living in the cupboard than he had even in this subpar bedroom that wasn’t quite as empty as she’d expected.

They were to be burned, she remembered. Vernon had mentioned it, one of the few things anyone had said during that car ride, and Dudley had simply turned his head in disgust. Those were his cousin’s things. Those were their saviour’s things.

Those things had been his life at one point, she realized as she approached the open trunk that was piled up with clothes and books. Things that she should be afraid of, but in that moment all that she wanted was to know what those years had been for him, because to him the highlight of those years certainly hadn’t been with them. Maybe the contents of that trunk could offer some clues.

She gingerly grabbed one of the books from the top of the pile. _Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1_ by Miranda Goshawk. He must have emptied the trunk and then ended up packing things in reverse order, she remembered Lily buying that book when she was 11. Despite her inhibitions Petunia carefully opened the text.

**This book is property of** _Harry Potter_

His name was slightly blotched, as though he’d been using a leaking pen to write it. She flipped through it and there were a few notes scrawled here and there, but nothing truly stood out. She gently set it on the bed. It was quickly joined by other volumes bearing titles such as _A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration_ and _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi,_ all carrying the same childish, blotted signature. Next in the pile were robes that bore the same red and gold crest she recalled her sister coming home with. Lily and that Snape boy had mentioned houses at that school; undoubtedly the coat of arms had something to do with that.

Various items hid beneath the heavy winter cloak—a small wooden whistle; a deck of singed playing cards; odd, outdated candies that Petunia didn’t care to recognise; an empty tin that she was willing to believe once held homemade fudge; and an unsigned note written in loopy handwriting that explained the gift it had been attached to was the boy’s father’s and asked that he “Use it well.” It appeared to be a part of his meagre Christmas haul that year, and the tiny part of her mind that dared to remember ignored the fact that their pathetic gift—a mere fifty-pence—was not among them.

Resting under the boy’s Christmas presents was an emerald green jumper.

It was hand knitted, Petunia saw as she lifted it up, but nearly flawless. And while the robes had seemed unreasonably small, this piece of _normal_ clothing really threw her nephew’s scrawny stature into perspective. It was probably the first article of properly fitting not freakish clothing he’d ever received. Upon realising this Petunia cast it onto the bed, nearly flinging it on top of the books and nicely folded robes.

Broken quills, bits of parchment bearing what looked to be class notes, nothing of particular interest, but beneath the rubbish was another set of books. Unlike the previous year’s, most of these were glossy and bore the image of a blonde, winking man under alliterate titles. Flipping through the pages she found that these, also unlike the other texts, were horribly defaced with scrawls of _“git”_ and _“fake”_ and similar insults. Dropping them on the bed in disgust, Petunia fished out another glossy brick titled _Magical Me,_ intrigued by the folded parchment she found inside.

It appeared to be a quiz, with the name _Harry Potter_ in chicken scratch at the top. Her nephew clearly hadn’t cared much; the entire page was blank of answers, only bearing questions like _“What is Gilderoy Lockhart’s favourite colour?”_ and _“What is Gilderoy Lockhart’s secret ambition?”_ and a large, exuberant zero at the top in faded lilac. What exactly had they been teaching them at that school? Lips pursed, she again placed it on the bed.

That year’s robes were only slightly larger than the previous sets, and beneath them was again a meagre Christmas haul. Petunia’s stomach jumped unexpectedly when she saw a broken toothpick wedged between the pages of a sickeningly orange book titled _Flying with the Cannons,_ recalling their pathetic treatment of her nephew.

_Her nephew._

There was another empty fudge tin and, underneath it all, another jumper. Petunia clenched it with bony fingers, holding it with more resolve than any of the other item from the magic trunk, knuckles white as she felt the still-soft yarn against her palm. It was so small. He had been so small, and it was all her fault.

Eyes burning inexplicably, Petunia dug into the trunk with fervour, shifting aside items urgently until she reached the next one—a scarlet jumper, emblazoned with a rearing gold lion. Holding it tightly she staggered to the bed, collapsing onto the broken spring mattress.

_Lily’s son. Lily’s son._ It repeated itself over and over in her mind, branding itself onto her heart. _Lily’s son is alive._ No thanks to her. All thanks to her.

He’d been protected because she took him in, but the soft jumper clutched in her shaking hands reminded her of everything she hadn’t done for him. There hadn’t been birthdays or Christmases or anything of the sort, just yelling and cupboards and secrets holding back tears—tears that were now ready to break free and fall now that the boy was gone, now that the magic had left, now that all that remained of that life was a trunk full of books and robes and too small Christmas jumpers.

Petunia Dursley took in a deep, shuddering breath, banished the moisture from her eyes, and clamped down the pain in her chest. She stood and, with the same care she afforded her son’s laundry, folded the four sweaters and placed them in a neat pile at the head of the rickety old bed. She returned everything else to the trunk and closed it, setting it on end for Vernon to deal with in the morning. She picked up the jumpers.

Dudley was fast asleep when she entered his room, absurdly clean and barren after a lifetime of excessive presents and insufficient chores. He was splayed out, covers twisted round his torso, one leg falling off the side of the bed. His mouth was ajar as he snored softly. Petunia pressed her lips together as she laid the pile of jumpers at the base of his nightstand and set to working the blankets out from underneath so she could lay them straight. Once he was tucked in to her satisfaction she smoothed back his blond hair and laid a gentle kiss on his forehead, thinking of her sister and her nephew and how, in a different life, her son might have had a black haired brother.

Petunia’s body felt heavy as she left Dudley’s room and entered her own for the first time in over ten months. Vernon’s snores echoed loudly and familiarly, uninterrupted even when she changed into her nightclothes and slipped into bed beside him. Pale eyes drooped shut as she entered an uneasy sleep, filled with dreams of green-eyed men and red-haired little girls.

In the morning there was no mention of magic or jumpers, and Petunia and Dudley both looked away as Vernon lugged the trunk down and loaded it into the boot of the car. But after he was gone, after their cases had been returned to their rooms and mother and son were left wandering aimlessly around an achingly unfamiliar house, Dudley grabbed her hand and squeezed it with a sad smile.

“Thank you.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is from my ffn account (of the same username), and has been subject to minor edits. I'll only be bringing over select works from there.


End file.
